


An Awful Bus Ride... & The Illness

by Ryuutchi



Category: Daria - Fandom
Genre: Episode Related, Fear and Loathing, Gen, Hallucinations, Hunter S. Thompson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-20
Updated: 2011-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-27 15:11:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryuutchi/pseuds/Ryuutchi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chapter from Fear and Loathing in Lawndale, the world famous roman a clef by Daria Morgendorffer OR; on the road to the Mall of Millenium</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Awful Bus Ride... & The Illness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firstaudrina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstaudrina/gifts).



> Thanks to my lovely lady, and to the group of people who dealt with my freakouts in the middle of writing.
> 
> Artemis_Sparks, I know this is Hunter S Thompson instead of Jack Kerouac, but I hope it entertains you anyway.
> 
> CONTINUITY NOTE: This story takes place during the episode "Malled" (1x05)

Monday, 8:30 a.m… Lawndale, Maryland…

We were five miles out when the illness started to kick in. I don't remember much but I think I said something like "I think I'm going to be sick, maybe you should handle this…" And then suddenly there was an awful sound, screeching, and the bus was crowded with these apes, vicious beasts all crowded together, shoving and shifting and moving through the bus. And a voice was saying: "Who's freaking idea was this anyway?"

My colleague was drinking a caffeinated beverage to facilitate the upcoming commerce patronage experience, but I knew that one too many of those would get her powerful twisted. "What are you mumbling about?" she asked, and I decided not to mention the apes. She'd figure it out in her own time. Until then, I could afford to let her keep a shred of her innocence.

My nerves were shot. The tension was rising already, but I had to keep calm, or I'd break a window, and throw them all into chaos. I recognize this feeling: it's the tense feeling of someone trapped with wild animals who haven't deigned to acknowledge your existence yet, but when they do—and it's only a matter of time before they do—they'll rip your head off. Nature red in tooth and claw. I could already see the blood on the seats. How many had they killed already?

We were miles from anywhere, surrounded by hostile beasts and there were still at least 90 miles to go.

We had brought with us only what we could carry. Powerful caffeinated drinks, a notebook, and my colleague's art supplies—a whole universe of pencils, charcoal, and multicolored paints, pens and paintbrushes made from the asshairs of the silkiest goats. We'd planned it that way so at the first sign of trouble we could flee like the cowards we were.

"That cheerleader is having sex with a wild gorilla. And I think he's singing '100 Bottles of Beer.'" I said.

"Don't tell me that," said my colleague, "I can't stand to look." She was staring out the window, and her hands kept clenching. "If I look, something awful will happen, and then I'll have to kill someone, or run. Or both. Kill someone and go on the run from the law. It's too horrible."

"His singing would drive anyone to murder," I said.

"I need another drink. I can't handle this ride without another drink," she said and pulled out another can of caffeinated beverage. She was staring out into the distance, at the stunted plants clawing at the side of the highway or something in the sky that only existed in the mind of someone wrecked on caffeine and the claustrophobic company of the fiends known as teenagers.

Somewhere around 9, we found ourselves confronted by what looked like a red-haired woodchuck. His teeth grew longer and sharper and I nearly shouted 'how much wood--' but I could feel the illness creeping up on me again. He had a terrifying smile, but my colleague didn't seem to notice how he eyed our throats. How much wood? It's not wood he wants too chuck. "Hello, ladies," he said. "I have this gold card..." He had a goddamn credit card, an high-limit credit line card. I didn't even want to know where he got it, the idea of asking him made me even more ill, from the way his mouth stretched, grotesquely sharp teeth poking between his lips. The sunlight glared into my eyes, that damn card was like a mirror, driving it straight into my eyes. I couldn't even hear what he was saying, and I don't think he wanted me to.

My colleague wasn't interested in either the card or the animal. She was definitely maintaining better than I was, but for how long? "Could you open a window?" I asked. I shouldn't have opened my mouth, desperation is like an aphrodisiac to these animals, and they can smell fear. He was on me in a second, his bony body wriggling into the tiny alley of space between my colleague and I and the seat in front of us. the nausea was nearly overwhelming then, the animal stench of him and the way his body twisted and contorted with effort. I looked to my colleague, but she seemed once again engrossed in some circus of her mind and caffeine addiction's invention.

It was almost too much for one person to take! I looked across the narrow corridor separating us from the rest of the teaming mass of creatures. My god, it was like a zoo. I'd thought it was only apes, but that was before. Now I could see more clearly that there were animals of all sorts, bulging and twisting is hideous parodies of natural animals-- there the fangs of a viper, there the awful muzzle of a baboon ready to fight. I had to act like I didn't see them. If I let on that I knew, we were dead.

We were getting close to our destination. I could tell because in the distance there was a giant billboard, saying:

"SHOPLIFTING IS A CRIME, MALL OF THE MILLENNIUM, 10 MILES"

, and past that was a wasteland of dead trees and empty-hearted consumer culture.

I had to close my eyes. I might have been able to manage the visions of popular girls devouring the heads of their boyfriends, but the shrill screech of the ten-foot tall cheerleader singing an ode to capitalism is something nobody can handle unless their brain has atrophied to nigh-uselessness. Something about it just doesn't jibe with reality.

By the time we arrive at the parking lot, my hallucinations were coming down to a tolerable level. The people on the tram still had arms that dragged and reptilian features, but they no longer stared at me with their beady, bloodthirsty eyes. "I know I'm going to be sick," I said. And then I vomited.

"Bienvenidos a Mall of the Millennium," said my colleague.

And that was it. I was going to the mall. I had no choice.

* * *

"Well, Daria, I think it's a very… interesting take on your field trip to the Mall of the Millennium. But wasn't your report supposed to be on the traffic patterns in the food court?"

"I thought that you'd appreciate a less academic approach to the trip, Mr O'Neill."

"I think you're very creative, Daria. But sometimes… have you ever thought that your writing is just, maybe, a tad bit disturbing?"


End file.
